Her lips quivered slightly, and she blinked, taking a step back. “And now, you corner me here, demanding to know why I left a meeting even after it had already ended.”
Lachlan stared at her, something oddly familiar coiling in his chest. He took in her flushed face, her red lips, and her slender neck as she jutted her chin.
“I didnae say ye could leave,” he said in a low, dangerous murmur.
Marian’s hands clenched into fists. “And I am not your prisoner, Laird MacLeod.” She straightened her back. “And if you so badly wish to scare me off your land, you should at least have the decency to play fairly.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Fair play? What does an English lady ken about fair play?
Lachlan’s chest heaved as his shoulders suddenly felt tighter underneath his tunic. A muscle ticked in his temple, and he exhaled, his dark eyes watching her fume.
She looked delicate even in her anger, her lips pouted slightly, and her face flushed. The breeze blew strands of dark hair into her eyes, and she blinked, breaking eye contact for a fraction of a second.
Lachlan balled his hands into fists at his sides, keeping himself from brushing those strands from her face.
She has nay right to be mad.
His father had fought to protect this very land until his last breath. His mother had fled to England before the wars even began, and he was left to pick up the pieces of the clan afterward.
He had become Laird MacLeod through blood and strife, and yet she had come with a piece of paper from the same England, laying claim to everything he’d worked for with his life.
Nothing about that was fair or decent.
He shook his head. “I bet ye’ve never had to fight for a thing in yer life,” he said through gritted teeth.
Marian’s eyes flashed with something he did not care to decipher. She straightened at once, her blue eyes piercing into his.
“You presume too much, my Laird.” There was a sharp edge to her voice. “I may not have fought in your wars, but do not mistake that for weakness. You do not know me.”
Lachlan let out a short, humorless laugh and took a step closer to her, despite himself. “Aye?” he scoffed lightly. “I ken exactly what ye are, Mairi.” He paused for a moment, taking her in as his lips thinned. “Ye’re a woman who has never been denied.”
Marian’s lips parted slightly. For a moment, he thought she was going to strike him. Instead, she held her chin higher.
Her eyes fell to his lips, narrowing slightly, and she said quietly, “And you cannot deny me, Laird MacLeod.”
Lachlan swallowed. He took a step back, creating more space between them. His fists clenched tighter.
“Aye,” he said after a pause. “I cannae.”
But that doesnae mean I’ll make it easy.
He leaned in, lowering his lips to her ear, and she inhaled sharply, her chest rising and falling quicker.
“But listen well,” he added, his voice barely a murmur. “If ye want to prove ye belong here, then ye’ll have to survive a Highland custom.”
Marian frowned. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with disbelief as a small smile crossed her face. “And what exactly does that entail?”
Lachlan’s mouth curved, slow and deliberate. “More than ye can handle.”
Marian folded her arms. “I have survived London society,” she said coolly. “I doubt your customs are any more dangerous.”
The glint in his eyes sharpened at once.
She must think ’tis a joke.
“Aye?” he drawled, almost amused. He straightened, leaning back just enough to break the heat between them. “Then we’ll see.”
